A Stirring Ecphrasis
by Mendelbra
Summary: After the war, Draco sees a painting of a mysterious woman that, to his surprise, strikes him to the core. He meets with the gallery's owner and something unexpected happens. DHr.
1. Chapter 1

**The Stirring Ecphrasis  
**

_For the French Challenge _

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is not mine.

**Full Summary:** After the war, Draco sees a painting of a mysterious woman that, to his surprise, strikes him to the core. He meets with the gallery's owner and something unexpected happens. DHr.

**Author's Note:** It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it looks like it will be 3 or 4 chapters long. Check out the challenge at: http : / www . fanfiction . net / topic / 44309 / 7092368 / 1 /

**Please review!**

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**A Stirring Ecphrasis**

_Prologue_

Draco realized that the certainty he had felt before now, was imaginary on his part. Sanity, too, seemed uncertain.

He had heard before that some people could speak when they played. That naturally, a shy, mute little boy, could blossom when he touched his slender finger to the cold keys. Suddenly he would have meaning, just like that.

That was how he found himself at his father's baby grand, in the damp cold manor, attempting to improvise. He tried to create the majestic A to D progression of Wagner, of Pachelbel, (well known wizard composers who masqueraded as muggles) but as his stomach clenched the melody wobbled, mirroring his turmoil.

He tried to create a pattern of broken triads in the left hand and flowing right-hand melody, but every anxious breath resulted in a jilted note. This anxiety was irony in its basic form; his nervousness thwarted any attempt at a perfect piece.

The quarreling of the melody became part of the piece then; continuous conflict and its resolution.

The mustached general that constantly shouted commands to his squad in one of the manor paintings once told Draco as a young child that in the colonial ages, if war ever resembled a melody it would be a waltz forever flouncing between three-steps: revolution, war, and peace. But that was the old paradigm; in the modern world, both Muggle and Wizard, they insist the art of war has mutated into something more complex.

His life was no longer as simple as a waltz—how had it quickly mushroomed into disaster? Why did he feel like he was on the edge of a steep cliff, looming above darkness? It didn't help that the rest of the society he was living in held the Malfoys in disdain, though his parents were decrepit and had invested in charitable causes.

The war—horrific, swift, and transformative—leached the vigor of the Wizarding world. Banks closed, homeless shelters opened, and the economy floundered. Though many thought he was untouched by the devastation wrought by the Dark Lord, like everyone else, he did not know quite what to do with the emptiness in his hand.

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_Chapter 1_

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He finally dragged himself out of the manor.

His father liked to pace back and forth, back and forth, through the halls, down the stairs, preferring nothing better than to hear himself speak.

"Doozy," he had commanded the feeble house-elf, "bring me some parchment. No, no, no! The page must be slightly yellowed. This letter is being sent to a _very _important member of society." Draco found the letter sometime later, discarded, his father surely accomplishing another imperative task.

His mother instead was not capable of preferring much of anything anymore. She now sat at the dining table, slowly polishing already sparkling wineglasses, staring blankly at the silver tray in front of her.

Everyone seemed to be going slightly insane.

Walking across the bleak street, he avoided the stares of the people who passed him by. He passed Olivander's, the Singham's Tailors, and an unfamiliar building. Lorthause Gallery, the decrepit sign read.

He glanced by, intending to walk right by. Instead, he stopped. And stared.

It was a painting of a brunette woman, emotions swirling under the transparency of her face. Her eyes stared out from the canvas, almost transferring her turbulent emotions directly to him.

She was clothed in bright, luscious red—the color of roses, blood, and apples (which symbolized sin, Draco thought salaciously to himself)—almost declaring herself the opposite of a virgin. She was experienced; she had seen darkness and death.

She was dressed like a English peasant. He looked at the date, but the artist had painted this recently, a few weeks ago. She looked so familiar, but he couldn't place her. Why did her face affect him so? He looked at the other paintings in the collection. They too were historical reenactments—one was an eighteenth century maid, one was a horseman, one was a soldier.

He looked back at her. Her delicate hands, long and nimble, but rough at the tips, were clasped awkwardly together, squeezed in nervousness. She stared out of her dark, glistening eyes, past his head, hesitant to meet the eyes of spectators, of voyeurs that wished to peek deep into her mind.

She left herself completely open emotionally, through the soft curves that composed her stance and delicate lines that made up the fabric of her clothes, but especially through the inscrutable gaze of her eyes that revealed only the intensity of emotion. The painting was magical, conveying more depth than a muggle portrait, but the woman was still.

Was it pain that Draco could see, feel? Was it vulnerability or soft sexuality? Was she wary of how the angle of her cheekbone tapered down into plump-pink lips, naturally chapped and pouted, and of the flushed cheeks that served as evidence to the long hours spent outside, as well as the scintillating curve of her breast visible through the thin material of her peasant blouse?

What had caused this enigmatic passion he could see in her face, he asked himself. Perhaps her lover dragged his thumb across her lips and disappeared during the night. Perhaps she only realized his betrayal in the light of the morning, wrapped around her covers. Perhaps it was not love's trials but the ache at her arms and back—from bending continuously over in orchard where she might labor, or in the kitchen—that creeps into her eyes. Her right hand pulls at the fingers of her left hand, either in anxiety or in agitation, or both.

But she wasn't just a depressed, broken creature, like so many post-war portraits, or purely a lascivious vixen, or a sanctified virgin clothed in soft blues and whites. No, she combined multiple qualities of humanity—fatigue, purity, sexuality, _experience_—and expressed them in one gaze, in the one stance of her body.

"You like that painting, eh son?"

Draco started, and jerked his head away from the image of the woman.

An old man, probably the owner, limped from the inside of his gallery towards Draco, "it, shall I say, inspires many of my clients." The man, face crinkled with age, wore long, forest green robes, his snow-white beard curling down to his chest. He leaned on a golden-knobbed cane, his free hand resting on his hip.

"Yet, no one's bought it yet, I see?" Draco raised an eyebrow, his face not betraying any emotion other than faint interest in the painting.

"Hmmph!" the bearded gentleman snorted and leaned on his cane, intertwining strands of his beard around his fingers, "like I would sell this painting to any leering schoolboy. You on the other hand seem quite of the decent sort. Intellectually interested, not ruled by your raging hormones."

_Well, not completely ruled by my raging hormones. _Draco frowned, perplexed that the old man wouldn't sell the painting to the highest bidder. "Do you know the artist personally?"

"Personally? Quite personally, intimately you might say."

"Oh." He looked at the signature on the painting. Thomas Wilkes. While being gay in the wizarding world was becoming more and more acceptable, admitting the fact openly, especially when your clients were rich, upper-class citizens,was rarely done.

The old man sniggered, "Especially because _I_ am Thomas Wilkes."

"Right." Draco smiled. He rather liked this ancient wizard, though he reminded himself he shouldn't be too hasty in trusting the man. "Are all of the paintings in this gallery yours?"

"No, just the ones in a historical context: sailors, jesters, peasant women, soldiers. You know back in my good old days." He chuckled to himself. "Actually I just received a collection of Henry Braklewurst's works."

He motioned Draco inside, and indicated a large moving painting of a ferocious lioness, her teeth piercing the side of a zebra, blood trickling down the striped flanks. The Manor was decorated with many painting of a similar genre. Exotic hunts. War scenes. Creatures, especially centaurs, attacking each other. He was more curious about Mr. Wilkes' own works.

"The process of painting must be hard work, Mr. Wilkes. How do you ever find your models?" He anticipated the answer almost anxiously, though his face did not belie any emotion.

"Oh, people I meet, who I find intriguing. Most of the models in my historical reenactment series are veterans of the war, like I understand you are, Mr. Malfoy. Would you be willing to pose?"

"Me?" After the war, almost no one would want to connect themselves with the Malfoy name.

"Yes…you." Mr. Wilkes grinned at him and waved his cane around. "You might know this man." He pointed to an elaborate painting of a horseman, riding furiously across a field, that Draco had noticed before. Carefully he looked at the man's dark skin and bright eyes, until his eyes widened in recognition.

"That's…"

"Blaise Zabini. You know him?"

"Yes, we were friends at Hogwarts." He made a mental note to owl him later. A silent presence at Hogwarts, Blaise was a worthy ally. He neither joined the ranks of the Dark Lord nor Dumbledore's Army, but would have been a commendable addition to either side.

"Hmmm…What would you say if I asked to paint you?"

"What would I have to do?"

"You would have to come here and pose for me in my studio," he motioned to a door to the side of the gallery, "You would have to come for three sessions, three hours each. I also provide the clothing you will wear. You might wear robes, maybe even Muggle clothing."

"That's it? Wear the clothes you provide and pose for three sessions?"

Mr. Wilkes nodded. "Nothing else."

Draco paused, thinking. If Blaise agreed to this, it couldn't be such a bad idea; the man always tread carefully. Plus, Mr. Wilkes already showed some audaciousness by linking himself to prominent Slytherins.

"Yes. I'll do it." he said slowly.

"Great, my boy! How about every Saturday for the next three weeks. Does that work for your schedule?"

"That' s fine." Currently there was no was schedule.

"Oh wait! You were interested in the painting of the peasant girl, yes?"

Draco nodded his assent. "Who is she? She seems quite familiar. Perhaps I have run into her before," he mused.

"The most interesting girl, she is. Would you like to meet her? We actually have lunch every month at this quaint restaurant in Diagon Alley. Zabini's Pizzeria. Delicious place."

_It must be Blaise's place,_ Draco thought with surprise. He remembered his friend had owled him some time ago about opening up a café, but he hadn't realized he had actually gone through with its construction.

"You seem like a fellow she would love to talk to." Mr. Wilkes looked at him questioningly.

Never before had just a painting struck him like this before. Would meeting this woman ruin the passionate allure of this painting that struck him so deeply? This wasn't such a good idea, was it?

Draco raised his eyebrows, "Perhaps I _can_ squeeze a little tête-à-tête in."

He knew his curiosity would kill him if he didn't take Mr. Wilkes offer.

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**A/N: **I based the painting off of one I saw called: _Ols Maria _by a painter named Anders Zorn. You can see it here: http: / i17 . photobucket . com / albums / b87 / Mal-1 / ZornAndersOlsMariaCustom . jpg. Or, you know, google it. I'm not really sure where this is going, but I do have the second chapter outlined.

**Please review!** (Even if it is constructive criticism-- which I can use!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter (I wish!)

A/N: I know this is third person, but this chapter is from Hermione's perspective...you'll get Draco's reaction later...

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_Chapter 2_

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"Bugger," was all she could utter at the sight of her reflection.

The satin garment unevenly clung to her waist, the fabric forming a large pouch over her stomach. As she tilted her head to examine herself, she imagined she could be one of the artist Rubens' portly models, rolls of voluptuous flesh hidden under silvery satin, or even a work of Bosch, depicting the moral failings of a lusty vixen.

Harry had finally proposed to Ginny and now, a year later, they had set their wedding in less than a month. While she knew next to nothing about fashion she suspected that Ginny would not appreciate the swirling rumors of a bridesmaid's pregnancy that this ill-fitting garment would surely cause.

Quickly unzipping the back, she flung the dress off and threw the silky material into a chair. She quickly put her robes back on, making a mental note to take her dress back to the tailors after her lunch with Mr. Wilkes.

Oh, Mr. Wilkes. Possessing the gift of incredible insight, once he attuned his blue eyes to yours, he could read your soul like a book. Both wise and wacky, he could deliver a punch-line and a serious piece of advice in the same sentence.

She remembered her first meeting with him almost a year ago. After the war, she been housed with Harry and Ron in Grimmauld Place, but while she fought together with her friends during the war she needed to face her demons alone. Basking in her own sorrows, she ignored everyone around her to the point of exclusion. Mr. Wilkes had been a godsend.

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"_Hermione! Hermione!" She groaned when she heard Ron's voice calling her from downstairs._

"_Go away!"_

"_Hermione." That was Harry's voice. "You can't lock yourself in there all day." Steps approached closer to the wooden door. As the knob turned and the door began to creak open, she threw the pillow that covered her head to the floor and with a snap she Apparated._

_Outside Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, she stared at the dark structure. The beauty of the building lay in its duality— the artistry of repetition balanced by its unsightly surroundings, the refined air of traditionalism that contrasted with the vibrancy of revolutionaries it housed inside. With a sigh, she walked away aimlessly, examining the gray pathway in front of her, the wilting shrubbery that lined the sidewalk. The scent of acrid rain hung over the streets. After a while, maybe five minutes or maybe even twenty, she looked up. She found herself at a war memorial, a white marble structure with a list of names that dominated the gray landscape._

_She was a killer. She had thrust her wand in front of her and screamed Avada Kedavra, somehow mustering all the hate and rage that the curse required. How many deaths had she directly caused? But they were necessary, she reminded herself. About to yet again walk away, she stopped abruptly when she heard a voice._

"_Wait."_

_She whirled around. An old man in majestic purple robes and a kind-looking face stood off to the side, leaning against a post._

_Slowly, he approached. "You're Hermione Granger." His eyes were a deep twinkling blue, reminding her of Dumbledore's. Her heart clenched in memory._

"_Yes," she admitted warily. Her pictures, spattered all over the Daily Prophet, proclaimed her a national hero, and she dreaded the impending request for an autograph, a picture, or earnest words of gratitude._

_Instead he startled her, asking if she would mind posing for him. At her muddled look, he explained he owned a gallery in Diagon Alley, and staring into his strangely familiar sparkling eyes she agreed, surprising even herself._

_Realizing she should probably know his name before she went anywhere, she asked who he was._

"_Mr. Wilkes." he answered gently, taking her hands in a calming gesture. It was comforting._

_She posed that very day. She stared at the back of his easel, ignoring the dull aching pains in her neck and shoulders as she remained in the same stance, hour after hour._

"_Sweetheart, are you should you wouldn't like to rest a bit, before we continue," he had said, holding his spectacles at the bridge of his nose. "Not even a drink, water or a frothy Butterbeer?"_

"_No, I'm fine," she stated solemnly. She could do this. Something beautiful could come from her, she vowed._

_Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he placed his brush on the ledge of the easel, calling her over to the canvas. Her mouth hung open. Unfinished colors flowed into each other, creating a mystical foundation. He painted the background with warm, soothing tones, no shapes distinguishable except for the crude outline of her body. Yet even so, each stroke represented an expression, a movement, a touch. This depiction of her would become an exquisite work of art, she could tell._

"_Thank you," she whispered._

"_For what?" he questioned. Handing Hermione her cloak, he added, "Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."_

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She shook her head, clearing her mind of the unbidden memories, and raised her hand to Apparate. After the whirl of colors settled and her vision cleared she stood in front of _Zabini's Pizzeria_, and turning the knob of the heavy oak door, she entered.

"Ms. Granger, this way." She nodded to the host who week after week greeted her in familiarity. As she passed the kitchen she winked at Blaise who waved his arms about directing the cook and the servers.

"Good afternoon, Hermione."

"Hello Blaise, how are you?"

"Completely fantastic." He turned his attention to a ginger-haired man who hovered over a simmering chicken breast. "Willoughby! Pay attention! I said five minutes, each side." He smiled back at Hermione. "Mr. Wilkes just entered. He's in here somewhere."

At first, Blaise was a quiet, lurking presence in his restaurant, making Hermione a bit wary to eat in the pizzeria. Thankfully after a couple months Mr. Wilkes introduced the both of them, and surprisingly Hermione found him charming with a wry sense of humor; she had even given him recommendations for new servers that might be willing to work for him.

Walking past the kitchens, her face brightened when she spied Mr. Wilkes in a corner. He sat languidly with his cane propped on the chair beside him. In fact, he was sitting at a table with three chairs instead of two.

"Are we expecting anyone else?" she asked, grasping his gnarled, lithe hands in greeting.

His eyes twinkled. "There might be someone else I would like you to meet."

"Keeping secrets, are we?" she smiled brightly. The past had shown Mr. Wilkes to be an amazing judge of character. He surrounded himself with incredible people; they always appeared undistinguished at first, but like an oyster shell, they opened up to an imaginative and unexpected hub. She pressed the linen napkin into her lap.

"Have you started on any new paintings?" she eagerly inquired.

"Oh yes, I've met a few new people."

"So you found someone to inspire you?" Suddenly, she had a flash of insight. "Is that who we're meeting?"

"Perhaps," he answered, waggling his eyebrow. His spirit often reminded her of Dumbledore's; he carried an ancient omniscient presence, but with an additional aura of immaturity.

"Oh, you know what?" She picked up her napkin and placed it back on the table. "I'll be right back." Looking around she whispered, "I need to go to the loo." She winked cheekily at him.

He could only shake his head. "I always wondered if I single-handedly turned that courteous girl into a crude young hoodlum. You know, one that announces when and where she is going to the bathroom."

She snorted.

As she made her way to the front of the restaurant, where the bathrooms were located, she accidently bumped into the shoulders of a person making their way into the restaurant.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mist…Malfoy!"

"Granger."

Her eyes widened. The last time she saw him she had caught him, his father, and his mother in an embrace; three desperate figures gathering strength from each other in a final surrender to the supremacy of love over power. Time had ingrained that image into her mind.

Now his face was more delicate than she remembered, his cheekbones narrower, his chin sharper. Her eyes ghosted over his broad shoulders, his finely tailored robes, his polished shoes before she glanced back up and locking her eyes with his.

For what seemed like more than a moment, they were the only ones in the restaurant, time standing still, and then, too soon, Hermione brushed a stand of her hair under her ears and turned away, resuming her journey to the restroom.

She didn't see Draco, remaining where he stood, stock-still. She didn't see Draco finally taking hold of his senses and stalking away, shakily raising a hand to his chest, smoothing down his shirt, searching for the aging gallery owner he promised to meet.

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Draco Malfoy was sitting at her table; she could see his blond hair as she approached the table. Draco Malfoy. There was no mistake. His sallow cheeks and brilliant eyes were still etched in her mind from their earlier run-in. What was he doing there? Oh, but deep down she knew he'd be sitting there...

Nervously, she pulled her chair out, painfully slow, and she followed the ascent of his chin up towards her, pinpointing the exact moment their eyes met. She noted how his eyes filled with shock, but how he quickly masked any emotion, and she gave him a small, wane smile as she settled into her chair. What else could she do?

"Ah!" Mr. Wilkens wiped his beard with his napkin, missing a few droplets of soups still clinging to his facial hair. "Hermione, this is Draco. Draco, Hermione. She was the model for the painting of the European maid you were so keen on." He clapped Draco on the back. Draco stiffened.

"Yes, we've met before." Hermione nervously fiddled with the napkin on her lap. "We actually went to school together."

"Not on good terms then, I suffice?"

Hermione smiled as he voiced the tension that had so quickly accumulated at the small table.

"No. We weren't." Draco stated, glancing at Hermione out of the corner of his eye.

"Bitter foes, rival academic partners, spurned lovers…?"

Hermione almost choked on her iced-tea. "Nothing like that! We just…didn't get along."

"I was quite rude to her during our school days," Draco conceded, looking at Hermione intensely.

Hermione stared unbelievingly at Draco. _Quite rude! He bullied me at Hogwarts! Although, _she admitted to herself, _it's somewhat of a miracle for him to admit it, let alone act contrite._

"Now my young dears, this old man has to go to the loo. I'll be back in a few minutes." Snapping her head around, Hermione looked pleadingly at Mr. Wilkes, but he just winked at her assuredly and scampered off towards the restroom.

Hermione unwillingly turned her gaze back to Draco's. She searched his light irises; she could find no malice, no condescension, no conceit. Frankly, his gaze unsettled her. For a while she stared back, unsure if her voice could break the thick silence.

"You know you don't have be polite," she started. She couldn't place this new Draco. "Even though Harry testified on your behalf, you don't have to feign this...this…civility."

Now his eyes narrowed. His lips fluttered open—once without a sound—then again. "Are you serious? You would rather me be nasty rather than tolerate you?" After Hermione remained silent, his lips curled. "Trust me, I'm sure I could manage that."

Avoiding looking into his face, she stared into her glass, focusing on the swirl of dark colors. "It's a personal choice, I guess. I knew you in school so I'd prefer you act without artifice." She took a sip. "Really, it's fine."

She could sense anger. A pure irate charge, gathering in the space between them, and she looked up. She almost flinched. He was furious.

"No. I _don't _think you prefer the truth at all," he gritted out. "You prefer consistency, you prefer everything in your little world to fit into tight, neat boxes."

Only confusion showed on her face.

"Fuck." He looked around as if he couldn't recognize his surroundings. "I shouldn't have come." As he slid his chair from the table, Hermione thought faintly that she should stop him. Instead she watched as his cloak billowed behind him and disappeared behind an entering group of diners. What had just happened?

When Mr. Wilkes returned to the table, Hermione was fiddling with the napkin on the table. Sheepishly, she looked up.

"We had a little…quibble."

He raised his eyebrows. "You had a _quibble_?" He curled his finger through a strand of his beard, shaking his head. He muttered to himself, _"I rather hoped the opposite would happen.."_

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. But since you scared my guest away…"

"I didn't _scare _him away…" Hermione insisted.

"…You'll have to help me out when I'm painting him."

"…Huh?" She had forgotten that Draco was Mr. Wilkes' new project.

"You know, position him, clean my brushes, bring me lunch, the usual kind of thing."

"Are you sure?" At his pointed stare she continued, "But I doubt he'd appreciate it. I mean, as you can tell, we're not exactly on the best of terms. He's one of those ultra-pureblood types, and we don't get along… " As per usual, she rambled when she was nervous.

Mr. Wilkes raised his eyebrow. "Didn't you think Blaise was one of those ultra-pureblood types too? And now, thanks to my introduction, you two actually talk."

It was true. They were on quite amiable terms.

"Well Blaise was nothing like Draco Malfoy. Malfoy was abhorently obnoxious in school."

"You sure you didn't do anything to set him off?"

"No…" Hermione rubbed her throat.

"Well, just be there this Saturday at six. Rise and shine, my little girl."

"I know, I know. I promise I won't be late this time."

"Mmmhmm. You'd better." He raised his eyebrows at her.

For the rest of their meal they chattered comfortably, and when Mr. Wilkes recounted an episode with two drunk trolls, she even laughed uproariously despite herself. She could almost forget the sight of Draco Malfoy's unfathomable eyes.

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**A/N: **Painting session next!

Review please!! Suggestions on what you think should happen, or how they should interact? Please?


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter

A/N: Ahhh!..I know it's been forever..

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_Chapter 3_

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Sprawled out on his red satin sheets, Draco stared at the web of cracks above him, following one dark line to another, until the black stands disappeared into the ceiling. He could easily fix the cracking plaster above his bed with a few swishes of his wands, but he was too intrigued by the intricacy of the pattern to muster the motivation.

He glanced at the clock. 12:04am. Restlessly, he turned on his side. Why couldn't he go to sleep? Tomorrow he would be immortalized in paint. Every curve of his cheekbone, every small blemish of his skin would be copied onto canvas. He sighed and shifted onto his side.

And, to make matters worse, Hermione would be there. She already hated him. He frowned, remembering the disastrous lunch meeting. What did he ever to do her to inspire such dislike? Alright, he had done plenty. But those days seemed like a whole lifetime ago, didn't they?

He rolled over to his other side. Immediately after the war, Harry Potter had decided to testify at the Malfoys' trial. After months of courtroom appearances, to the surprise of everyone, the wizarding world's hero singlehandedly released the three Malfoys from any time at Azkaban with only a few words (provided that they donated substantial amounts of Galleons to the Ministry, of course). From that point on, Draco could never figure out how to act around Potter. His discomfort was so great would do anything to never meet him face to face again.

This discountenance extended to Hermione, and even Weasley for that matter.

Letting out a deep breath, he pushed the covers over his head, willing his thoughts to dissipate. He concentrated on clearing his mind and began to count dragons: 1…2….3….50...100..

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"Take off your shirt." Mr Wilkes tapped his brush impatiently on the side of his easel.

"What?" Draco, looked up disbelievingly at him. "I'm sorry what did you say?"

"Take off your shirt." Mr. Wilkes repeated.

"Because 18th century peasants went around shirtless?" Draco looked down on his thin button-down tunic and cotton pants that Mr. Wilkes had provided him with at the beginning of the session. When Hermione had handed him the clothes he was supposed to wear, he realized he was nervous, as he expected. His nerves had calmed since then and thankfully Hermione had busied herself with preparing Mr. Wilkes' paints and washing materials in the sink; her presence was now unobtrusive.

Solemnly, Mr. Wilkes turned to him. "Sometimes I call on a model to stretch themselves beyond their limits of comfort, and although I predict a warring of emotions, I expect them to at least try." Draco felt his disapproving gaze trace over his figure. "Every painting I create is a study in emotions…."

"Point taken." Draco interrupted, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, and he shrugged off his top. Muscles rolled under Draco's pale skin as his shoulder blades arched gracefully. For the next few hours, he was led through a variety of poses, and took on and off a variety of clothing.

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"Put the jacket on," Hermione hissed at him. "Stop being difficult." He jerked the offending garment away from her, and jerkily put it on.

"Fine."

Mr. Wilkes brought out two or three different jackets, musing at their fit on Draco, and Hermione mediated the transactions.

As her long, tapered fingers grazed over his, his senses burned. Moments later, he told himself he'd imagined any titillation that he thought he felt. As she turned back to Mr. Wilkes he admired her profile in the dim light; the way the light and dark danced on the contours of her face resembled the contrast, or _chiaroscuro,_ used in her portraiture. The macrocosm captured in paintings was completely separate from the real world, he impressed upon himself.

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Almost on the other side of the room, Hermione's mind advanced furiously as well. The butterflies of hues lighting over his sinewy muscles, the sleek angle of his jaws, the glistening smoothness of his body, was just a trick of effusive light, she reminded herself.

Hermione watched Mr. Wilkes paint the foundation of the canvas. A foggy haze of paint was slathered on first. A myriad of colors then began to brighten the surface--vermillion, carmine, alizarin--all warm colors that sung in synergy. Eventually, Mr. Wilkes' brush begun to stroke on Draco's alabaster skin-- misty as a ghost-veil, the curves of skin materialized elegantly.

Hermione looked at his thin, lean figure, and the contours of his relaxed visage. His expression seemed so normal, and devoid of maliciousness. She remembered how his eyes brightened with glee, his lips curved up daintily, and his face glowed as he taunted her, Harry, and Ron at Hogwarts. More than anything, she never forgave him for the joy he took in bullying his classmates.

As she glanced up at him, she caught his eye. She looked down, but she was unable to look away for long, and she lifted her head again. Not for the first time, she wondered how this had happened. It was almost crazy she was watching _Draco Malfoy,_ of all people, getting his portrait done. He was in an exposed position, partially unclothed in room with two people he did not know well. Time dragged itself lethargically forwards until the session had finished, and then the pair wondered how time had moved so quickly.

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Mr. Wilkes sighed heavily, breaking the pair's connected gaze. He ran one hand through his wiry hair, and sunk down onto a wooden stool. "Clean up for me, will you?"

"No problem, Mr. Wilkes." Hermione said, lids fluttering, her eyes resting everywhere but Draco.

"Thanks, dear. I'll trust you to lock up for me." Gathering his belongings, he ambled out of the shop, as Hermione moved the easel and canvas.

Draco grabbed his wand and shrugged. Pointing at the splattered floor around the easel, he started to mutter, "_Scour--."_

"_No!" _Hermione shouted, rushing forwards and grabbing Draco's wand. "You can't use magic in here! It might interact with the paints he uses."

Draco took his wand back, jolting it out of her hand. "So Granger, how exactly do we clean up?" he remarked snidely.

"We use those wash cloths over there," she pointed to the corner of the studio.

Thye both dragged themselves to the floor (Draco quite gingerly, as he had rarely found himself on his knees on a floor _anywhere_) and wiped rhythmically in concentric circles.

They cleaned up in silence, avoiding each other in awkward play of poses.

Finally, they left, their footsteps departing in different directions, the wind blowing softly, rain sprinkling gently, and both secretly anticipating the next time they could again immerse themselves in world separate from their own.

xXx

A/N: I know it's been a long time, but I absolutely hate it when people do not finish their stories and I was determined to not become one of 'those'! Since it HAS been awhile, I couldn't completely delve into the angstiness of the first two chapters, and the quality might not be up there XD.

Also, I've written the vast majority of the next chapter (the LAST chapter) so it should be up in a week (or two). Thanks for reading!


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